


apples (per the author's intention)

by LWTIS



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Apples, Aziraphale has Issues with Crowley's trousers, Happy Ending, Hidden symbols in my hereditary enemy's gifts?? It's more like than you think! (or not), Introspection, Light Angst, Love is in the little things, M/M, Pining, can I call this slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: “It’s just an apple, angel.”Only that was never the case, was it?When you have consumed as many stories as Aziraphale had during his long life - when your longest standing relationship was a clandestine affair with a demon of all people - you knew that an apple was never just an apple.-Aziraphale, on temptation.





	apples (per the author's intention)

_ I got a feeling I might have lit the very fuse  
_ _ That you were trying not to light _

_ ...When the winter's in full swing and your dreams just aren't coming true  
[Ain't it funny what you'll do?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyO-Sveg6a8)_

_ \--- _

“Ever wonder why it was apples?”

The question comes out of the blue, somewhat. Clutching his half-empty glass and the threads of their previous discussion regarding Les Misérables, Aziraphale frowns. 

“...pardon?” 

“_Apples._” Crowley repeats. He’s lying on the couch, legs draped at an angle that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. He raises a hand for emphasis, consonants of his words honeyed with brandy. “Big fruit tree, in the middle of the Garden, with a great big _ ‘Don’t Touch’ _ sign on it. Ring any bells?”

Aziraphale lets out a thoughtful hum. "It was just left of the most _ delightful _ pear tree. Spotless and bursting with juice at the slightest touch."

“And always full of bloody _ wasps _ \- ” The demon's glass smacks against the floor, utterly graceless. "Not the point. _ Focusss, _angel."

Aziraphale doesn’t need to glance Crowley’s way to feel the expectant stare on his skin. Idly, he gives his drink a little swirl.

“I’ve no idea.” he confesses, a little reluctant. “It’s not like I ever _ asked _ the Almighty about it.” 

He gets a sharp snort for his troubles. When hazy blue meets twinkling amber, Crowley’s smile is crooked. 

“Go on then. I dare you.” he croons. The whites of his teeth flash in the lamplight, all saccharine sarcasm. “Pop it in one of your annual reports, in the _ ‘Any Questions?’ _ box. Let me know if She replies.” 

\---

It’s not an illogical choice, Aziraphale muses the next day. The wind bashes the rain against the windows, its howling audible even through the thick walls. The bookshop, in stark contrast, is dry and blissfully empty of customers.

It’s fitting, in general terms of aesthetics. Apples are traditionally round and routinely symmetrical. Their waxy skin catches the light in an alluring _ (delicious) _ manner, coy in their invitation to just _ come, _ come and take a bite. And they came in _ such _ a beautiful array of colours too - from sunshine yellows and delicate pinks to acid greens and reds. Oh, such _ striking _ reds - carmine, crimson, freckled ruby. And then there was the matter of _ taste _ \- the crisp texture, the sharp tang the first mouthful left on one’s tongue. The _ aroma_.   
All in all, a very sensible choice for the fruit of knowledge. 

Manicured fingernails tap against his desk, lips pursed. His eyes furtively dart towards the window - out of habit - to ensure the absence of potential witnesses, of celestial eavesdroppers. 

If anyone would have asked him - not that anyone _did_ \- Aziraphale would have still chosen pears, personally.  
There was just something so quite _lovely _about pears.

\---

Perhaps it’s fortunate the Almighty decided on apples, Aziraphale thinks the following week, watching Crowley wrinkle his nose at a jar of pear compote. He imagines it would be rather frustrating to see your own image - now a permanent companion to the forbidden fruit - always intertwined with something you found ‘mushy and bland’. 

(Crowley’s _ taste _ itself was a whole other matter. But he digresses.)

Aziraphale used to think that in the aftermath of what is now-known as the Original Sin, Crowley would surely be pleased with this outcome. Any demon _ would _ be proud of such glorious infamy, no doubt. He happened to mention this once in the sixteenth century, between their second and third rounds of ale. A quick miracle had secured them a corner table, perfect for hosting an impromptu discussion about the recently invented printing press and the subsequent popularity of the Bible. Much to Aziraphale’s surprise, his words were met with a grimace. 

_ “I’ve a few bones to pick with this new copy.” _ Crowley had said, mouth slanted into an unhappy line. _ “Especially that bit with me and Eve.” _

_ “...nothing that has been written is untrue.” _ Aziraphale had felt inclined to point out. Carefully, he chased the last drops of his drink from the rim of his goblet. 

_ “Yeah, but the devil’s in the details, isn’t it?” _ came the reply. A bony finger flicked at the crumbs on the table, gaze illegible behind tinted glasses. _ “Framing. Context. Author’s intent and all that rubbish.” _

Familiar concepts to a connoisseur - _ hoarder, _ Crowley would always tease - of published literature. Rather odd, still, hearing them from the demon’s mouth. 

_ “...oh?” _

_ “Just find it peculiar that Eve is written as the sole reason for humanity’s fall, responsible for the Original Sin - rather than...than, you know - something like the first seeker of knowledge.” _ Crowley traced a lopsided shape amongst the empty plates, dark brows furrowing further. _ “The mother of free will, if you will.” _ There was a wry sort of grimace twisting around his lips - one that Aziraphale could still recall with startling clarity. _ “Rings very differently that way, doesn’t it?” _

“Are you _sure _you’ve bought enough cheese, angel?” Crowley-of-the-present asks from his left, snapping him out of his ale-and-blasphemy-flavoured nostalgia. Against all good market etiquette, the demon had taken three of the free samples from every stall, dutifully flicking the dirty toothpicks on the ground once done.

“You can stop being snide.” Aziraphale sniffs, tightening his grip on his tote bag. “It was a _ very _ good deal.”

“Price of three small continents.” Crowley snorts. He tongues at a sesame seed stuck between his teeth. “All for a mountain of cheese that smells like feet.” 

“They smell _ divine_, thank you very much.” The angel takes a deep breath, just to prove his point. The scent of his purchases mingle with the sharp tang of olives and still-sizzling beef from the nearby stall, prompting a mournful grumble from his stomach. Lunchtime was still so, _ so _far away. “It’s making me quite peckish, actually.” 

Crowley's snigger is loud but not unkind. It's soon followed by the sound of crinkling paper. “Here, something to tide you over.” 

Red glints at the corner of his eye, a sweet scent mingling with the savoury. There’s a platitude on the tip of his tongue before the clarity of the scene sets in, echoing the topic of his recent memory with uncomfortable parallels.

“Really, Crowley?” he hisses, yanking his hand back as if burnt. _ “Really?!” _

“What? You got something against Gala now?” The demon peers over the edges of his glasses, mouth pursed with scrutiny. “Is it not organic?”

“That - you and - it's _ not _funny!” 

Crowley stares. Glances at the apple in his hand.   
And then throws back his head and _ howls _ .   
A rather exaggerated reaction over his _ own joke, _ Aziraphale thinks crossly. Especially when his voice climbs into breathlessly high octaves, laughter only encouraged by an angelic elbow to the ribs. 

“Oh, _ careful _ now, angel.” Crowley eventually chortles, voice honeyed with mirth. He gives the fruit an enticing little twirl. “Who knows what _ insidious _ ideas a single bite will inspire?” 

-

He finds the apple later that evening, tucked inconspicuously between a plump camembert and a packet of gouda.  
It’s a rather unangelic thing to waste food - moreso to chuck it across the room for no good reason whatsoever.  
(That doesn’t stop Aziraphale from considering it for a long, sulky moment.) 

\---

They go to dinner next Thursday (as they had done the Thursday before). The evening's restaurant - unconventionally - comes on Crowley’s recommendation.   
The bistro is cozy and comfortably compact, sporting lacquered countertops and cheerful pine furniture. The menu is sparse and a little cryptic in its description - but the salmon the angel eventually picks is grilled to perfection. 

“That was _ delightful_.” With a pleased sigh, Aziraphale dabs at the corner of his mouth with the checkered napkin. “Where did you find this place?”

“Oh, you know.” Crowley says. Idly, he gives his spoon a twirl. 

The angel is about to tell him that no, he very much does not - wouldn’t knowing defeat the entire point of the question? - just as the waiter re-appears. 

“Would you like to order dessert?” he asks whilst collecting their plates, all checkered shirt and cheerful smile.

“Oh, yes!” Quickly, Aziraphale glances at the chalkboard on the wall. The sprawling copperplate script offers a single option. “What’s the Chef’s recommendation?”

“We are known for our excellent apple pies, sir.” the boy replies, beaming away. “Freshly baked with home-grown fruit.” 

Slowly, the angel turns to fix his glare onto his companion - who has chosen that exact moment to examine the wine list. 

“We’ll take two.” Crowley says. The angle of the laminated paper is not enough to conceal the smug brunt of his grin. “You serve it with ice cream, right?”

\---

“Crowley.”

“Yes, angel?”

“How long have we been meeting in this park for?”

It’s a beautiful day, crisp-smelling and bright-skied. Squirrels bound across the walkway with single-minded determination, eyes fixed on every picnic spread. On a well-loved bench, a demon stretches his spine with a groan.

“Oh - better part of the millenium?”

“Right. So care to explain _ why _ the tree above our bench has inexplicably changed from chestnut to an _ apple tree in full bloom?”_

As if on cue, a breeze ruffles through the branches, showering the two of them with a handful of petals. 

“Well, surely _ I _ don’t know, Aziraphale.” comes the insufferable reply. Idly, Crowley reaches to pluck a petal from his hair. “It’s not like I own the park.”

The mother walking past jumps as the angel’s shoes smack against the tarmac, loud and annoyed. “It’s not even the season for apple blossoms!”

“Oh, like _ you’d _ know. Who was it that made the chestnut trees bloom mid-February again?”

_ “Once!” _ Aziraphale protests hotly, feeling the colour rush to his cheeks. “That was _ once _\- it was a particularly warm February, and the rest of the trees were already budding!”

“Now now, there’s no need to shout.” Crowley chides, like the _ absolute hypocrite _he is. “You’ll make it dump all its flowers on top of us at this rate.” 

\---

On Saturday, Crowley drops by the bookshop. 

Aziraphale barely hears the tell-tale tingle of the bell, much too absorbed in an Edwardian anthology. By the time he re-emerges - dusty hands wiping the sweat from his brow - his visitor is long-gone.   
(He has zero doubts concerning their identity, though. There is only one person his front doors would open for with no fuss, after all.) 

There’s a note on the desk. Silver ink on charcoal paper, a prompt reminder of their dinner reservation. Perched on its corner - dewy, freckled and deviously pink - is an apple.  
_Pink Lady_ is his first thought. The taste is the second, spreading across his tongue even before the scent tickles his nose, his traitorous brain prompt with the memory. 

He takes a slow, measured breath, abruptly uncomfortable in manners he doesn’t wish to examine closer. Suddenly, he finds himself wishing for one of those portable phones Crowley kept pestering him about, with its quick messages and appropriate array of digital hieroglyphs. 

-

“It’s still not funny, you know.” he makes a point of saying in the evening, tapping his knife against his plate to drive the point home. 

Bottle poised above the rim of his wine glass, Crowley makes an inquisitive noise. “What isn’t?”

“Your little stunt this morning.” Aziraphale huffs. The deep, lovely maroon filling up his glass makes it a little difficult to cling onto his ire. "Care to explain yourself?”

Crowley hums again. Candlelight flickers over lacquered nails as he sets the bottle down on the table.

“It’s Teacher’s Day today.” he says, as if that explained everything. “So I brought you a gift. Thought it’d be best to stick to what’s traditional.” 

Aziraphale can only blink, brows knitting further. “...I...really don’t follow.”

“_Well, _ I thought it was very appropriate for you.” Crowley drawls, lips tugging into a familiar smirk. “Aziraphale, oldest keeper of worldly knowledge, hoarder of tomes since the Beginning.” He gives his drink a little swirl, slow and deliberate. “Self-appointed educator of every waiter, confectionary seller, grad student and stray queer youth poking their nose into your shop.” 

There’s a lazy sort of taunt lurking in his tone - like a panther lounging in the sun, half-heartedly baring its fangs. The words are coated with wine-flavoured warmth and they make themselves comfortable in Aziraphale’s chest with practiced familiarity.

“I can’t quite decide if you’re insulting or complimenting me.” he eventually says, taking a prim bite. He gets a crooked grin in response. 

“Just making an observation, angel. Should we get the lamb?” 

\---

Crowley slinks into the bookshop on Thursday evening just after the tenth chime of the old grandfather clock, smoky-eyed and beaming. 

“Happy Halloween, angel!” There’s a pair of cheap plastic horns poking out from mussed hellfire curls, his hands shoved deep in bulging pockets. 

(Aziraphale doesn’t have to ask to know they are filled to the brim with sweets - pinched and pilfered from communal bowls and trick-a-treating bags of unsuspecting strangers. He also knows they’ll find their way into the various mugs and bowls of the bookstore somehow, all in Aziraphale’s favoured flavours.)

“And to you, Crowley.” the angel says, setting his mug down. If he squints, he thinks he can see flecks of glitter clinging to the ends of Crowley’s ponytail. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” the demon says, like he didn’t spend the better part of last week helping Aziraphale with the decorations. “Could do with more spiders though.” 

“I think half a dozen plastic arachnids are quite enough.” Aziraphale sniffs, quashing down the fondness bubbling in his chest. He is _ not _having this conversation again.

With a roll of his eyes and a grunt, the demon drapes himself over his customary chair. “It’s mad out there. Haven’t seen this many angels walking around since Mesopotamia.”

Aziraphale hums. It always was a surreal experience, catching glimpses of so many (delightfully human caricatures of) angels. He had to hand it to some - facing the October weather in little more than frilly lingerie was a brave feat indeed. “What about demons?” 

“Horns and Sainsbury’s pitchforks everywhere.” comes the reply. Aziraphale cannot quite decide whether his tone is annoyed or secretly pleased. “Ah - almost forgot. Catch.” 

The angel has a split second before an odd-shaped object is tossed his way, barely spared from the pull of gravity by panicky hands. Abruptly, the scent of toffee tickles his nose.

“Oh _ really_, Crowley, that’s - wait, did you have this stuffed into your _ pocket?! _” 

“A pocket lined with demonic miracles, angel.” Crowley says, infuriatingly nonplussed. He waves a lazy hand in his direction. “You should eat it before it melts.”

Gingerly, Aziraphale grasps the wooden stick between sticky fingers. Examining the gift - dyed-sugar coating still gleaming despite the rough handling - is significantly easier than meeting the demon’s eyes. “Odd treat, for England. Aren’t toffee apples rather American?”

“...isn’t this whole debacle?”

“Ah. Fair point.” 

\---

The gifts in literature are what really sets Aziraphale’s alarm bells ringing. 

On Wednesday, he returns from the barber to find a neatly wrapped package on his desk. Beneath the string and tissue paper is a book with a gilded spine and yellowed pages, the Grimm Brothers’ name etched onto the cover in spindly letters. A girl perches above them - fair-skinned and dark-haired - attention focused on the bright red fruit clasped between her hands. 

(_“I know you like your first editions_.” the demon says when questioned, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. Beneath them, the Bentley swerves onto Regent street at a casual ninety-miles-an-hour . _ “And _ ** _I_ ** _ like how the candyfloss versions of fairytales are the most popular ones these days. Old Jacob and Wilheim haven’t stopped rolling in their graves since the nineties._”

_ “And I suppose you just happened to pick Snow White? Accidentally?” _

_ “You’ve got to admire someone that dedicated to aesthetics, angel.” _)

On Saturday, it’s a turquoise hardback of Greek mythology, soft leather and silver-edged cardstock. There’s a bookmark slitted between pages fifty-five and fifty-six, marking the story of the Trojan War. A gilded apple sits on the cover page, carved with words declaring it a gift to the most beautiful one in the room.

(Crowley’s fondness for ancient Greek stories is something Aziraphale is quite familiar with. He suspects it might have something to do with their multitude of gods - all selfish, capricious and so very _ human _ in nature.

_ “You’d think it was something my lot came up with, Eris’ plan in that Trojan War tale.” _ he says over still-warm Sunday scones, eyes gleaming over tea-misted sunglasses. _ “One little gesture, resulting in complete discord over both realms and a war that lasted a decade.” _ He casts a glance towards the book, brows tight and thoughtful. _ “Imagine the kind of chaos they could cause if they had just a bit of that imagination.” _

_ “...Well. Thank Heavens they don’t.” _

_ “I’ll drink to that.” _ )

It’s when the demon turns up on Thursday holding a slim black book, a pair of pale hands offering an apple on the cover, that Aziraphale has to put his foot down. 

“Oh no, no, no, absolutely _ not! _” he cries, hurriedly circling his desk. “I cannot have that book in my shop, Crowley!”

The demon clicks his tongue. “Bit of an overreaction to some trashy wish fulfilment, don’t you think?“

Even though his haze of panic, Aziraphale cannot help but feel a little offended at that assessment - surely, he wasn’t so _ mindlessly _ unfair in his judgement. As questionable as the gender politics and overall writing quality was, he always did have an unfortunate soft spot for forbidden romances. “No - I cannot be seen stocking _ popular _ books! It will give the customers the entirely wrong idea. Almighty forbid I _ encourage _them!”

\---

Somehow, the book ends up taking permanent residence on his desk, wedged between a dog-eared Remarque and a second-hand Greene. Its corner bumps against Aziraphale’s elbow every time he reaches for the stapler - or his glasses, or a folder. For an inanimate object, it seemed terribly insistent on reconfirming its presence - and distracting him. The new additions to his shelves weren’t much help, either - they drew his eye every time he bustled past, like some demonic sore thumb.

(Metaphoric apples, just within reach.)

Taking them off the shelf, allowing his gaze to linger, ruffling through the pages - even the thought of it felt a little like forbidden _ indulgence _ . Like succumbing to an obvious bait.  
The afternoon sun slid across the gilded letters across the spine of _ Snow White_. With a huff, Aziraphale marched towards the back of the shop for some impromptu inventory. 

It shouldn’t be such an _ issue_, really. Crowley bringing him books wasn’t exactly a novelty - dozens of his treasured tomes had been gifts from the demon. It is not something that should leave him flitting between annoyed and frustrated, fruitlessly trying to entangle what exactly it all _ means_. 

“It means _ nothing_.” he tells the _ Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath_, tone quite firm. “Just a perfectly ordinary fruit.”

_ But_, the faded front cover seems to whisper, cold against his fingertips. _ But, but, but_. 

However, however, _however_, his brain joins in, urgent and insistent. Crowley’s presents never had such an obvious _theme_ to them before.  
(And that is a little harder to ignore.)

_ If we were anything else_, Aziraphale thinks, slotting his well-loved fourth copy of _ The Bell Jar _ in place. Perhaps if they were anything else, he could brush it aside as an irritating joke. (A nostalgic gesture.) If they were anything other than themselves: a pair of supernatural entities under the same employer perhaps, or a pair of perfectly ordinary humans, unlikely acquaintances-turned-friends - it wouldn’t mean anything.  
But as comfortable as the habits of humanity sit in his bones, the pair of them are, at the end of the day, still an angel and a demon. The longest-standing Earthly agents of Heaven and Hell, at that.   
And when you have been consorting with the _ enemy _ for millenia - gaining a special kind of fluency in code and double meanings - an apple is never _ just an apple, _is it?

Not to mention that Crowley wasn’t _stupid_. Despite his loud protests to the contrary, the demon’s thirst and vigour for the fruits of human creativity matched Aziraphale’s head-on. Crowley, with his _‘I don’t read books’ _and theatrical eye-rolls at the Bard’s tragedies. Crowley, with his tight-lipped grimaces over dear Oscar’s poems, with his little exasperated sighs over every new adaptation of _Les Misérables_ _(“Every reprint destroys a small forest and depresses a new generation, angel, I’m shocked you’re so happy about this - “). _Crowley with his (annoyingly) sharp insights and stubborn arguments about _heavy handed symbolism _and _lazy archetypes_, points swinging wildly between academic and ridiculous. 

Crowley with his near-encyclopaedic knowledge of stars, flavoured with tales both scientific and literary. Crowley, with his fondness for the Chinese zodiac and all its intricate little traditions. Crowley, who had spent many balmy summer nights sprawled on the grass, tracing the different shapes on the surface of the moon for Aziraphale to see (_“See, angel, there’s the rabbit’s tail - and that one underneath is his barrel for mixing the elixir of immortality. Or rice cakes. Depends on who you ask and how hungry they are.”_).   
Crowley, who had bought him tickets to every premiere of _The Importance of Being Earnest_, despite his rather vocal opinion about Wilde. Crowley who, after two bottles of outrageously good champagne, had recited Aziraphale’s favourite sonnet from memory - feet planted on the coffee table, then-long hellfire curls bouncing with every dramatic sweep of his hand. Crowley, who always seems to know what he’s talking about, what he’s referring to - whether the topic of their conversation is from last week or the last century. 

So, when Aziraphale thinks about it - considers it, turns it over to appraise from every angle - a coded message hiding in his gifts isn’t an _outlandish_ line of thought to consider. 

Not to mention that despite initial impressions pointing to the contrary, Crowley could be _very _good at certain aspects of his job: at spreading annoyance, creating efficient inconvenience, at prompting people to ask unwanted questions.   
(Crowley, inventor of the most frustrating motorway in British history. Crowley, who knew humans and their ways and vices better than any other demon could have hoped to. Crowley, holder of the most commendations Hell has handed out during the last century.) 

And oh, Aziraphale knew this _ very _ well. 

\---

“It’s a little misleading, don’t you think?” the angel says, lips pursed. He has to raise his voice to be heard above the merriment of the pub. “Other than in name, this shares _ very _ little with an actual Oktoberfest.”

“Well don’t tell _ them _that.” his companion snorts, gesturing at the neighbouring table. “The guy in the polyester lederhosen will be so disappointed.”

As if on cue, the young man springs from his seat amidst furious clapping, almost smacking into the approaching waitress. Sidestepping them, she deposits two glasses on their table with a long-suffering look before hurrying away.

Thoroughly distracted by memories of their last visit to Germany - the beer sauce, the _ pastries _ \- it takes three sips for Aziraphale to notice.

“...this isn’t wine.”

“Came highly recommended at the bar.” Crowley says, voice chiselled into nonchalant perfection. He has the gall to raise a toast. “What’s a crafts drink festival without a little English cider?”

Applause erupts again behind him. The lederhosen-clad young man jumps up, elbow bumping against Crowley’s shoulder in the process. The motion upsets the demon’s glass enough to send cider dribbling down his wrist. Miraculously, none of it ends up on his ridiculous watch. 

“Sorry mate!”

“Steady on.” Crowley grumbles. “Try not to break your neck.”

The other doesn’t hear, already chorus-deep in song. Crowley’s brows tighten with tell-tale concentration and Aziraphale knows the young man will have a monumental hangover come tomorrow. “Bloody kids.”

He can’t quite resist, the fizzy apple-taste sour on his tongue. “A little hypocritical coming from you, don’t you think?”

“Hey, _ my _ control over my limbs whilst drunk is _ exceptional, _thank you!” the demon protests. “I didn’t break a single glass in your shop the two hundred years we’ve been drinking there.” 

Aziraphale is about to remind him of the Case of the Bourbon and the Stained Keatons (no, he’s not _ petty_, it’s the _ principle _ of the matter) when Crowley dips his head and licks a wet stripe up his wrist.  
The noise of the pub cuts out for a heart-stuttering second, drowned out by the thunder of his own heartbeat. 

(It used to be surprising. Back in the day - stupidly - he had expected Crowley’s tongue to be forked. The mundanity of reality was somewhat of a shock.)

_Cough-drop coloured tongue_, his mind suddenly supplies, with inexplicable clarity. He wonders if it would taste the same too - sweetness sharp enough to be alien, yet comforting all the same.   
Reality thunders back with a hot rush of shame, scorching along his spine and making him shudder. Crowley’s tongue catches the drops clinging to his pinkie and Aziraphale considers begging him to stop.   
As if it wasn’t bad enough already - Crowley and his knife-point cheekbones, sinuous limbs and cool nonchalance in the face of it all. With his hellfire hair and damned trousers that Aziraphale was convinced were chosen to torment him specifically. 

Blearily, he realises his fingers were numb from gripping his glass too hard. When Crowley turns to search for some napkins, Aziraphale miracles the cider into something much stronger - as foreign from apples as possible. 

\---

He knows he’s being unreasonable. 

Aziraphale wasn’t called into creation yesterday. He knows it’s a little naive to feel slighted over a series of temptations - minor ones, at that. He’s also perfectly aware that being disappointed in a demon for indulging in temptations was foolish, to say the very least. 

(He tells himself so on a rainy Thursday, elbow bumping into that damned apple-embossed paperback, the ghost of yesterday’s cider still lingering on his tongue.) 

No matter the circumstances and caveats - the dressing and decoration - one could hardly be faulted for acting the way one’s nature compelled them to.   
The words do very little to ease the bitter taste in his mouth. 

\---

“Well. _ That’s _a blast from the past.” 

The National Portrait Gallery is still busy on Wednesday afternoon, filled with tourists and yawning students. A mother with a buggy shoves past them, nudging the angel a little closer to the painting depicting an uncomfortably familiar scene.

“I didn’t know they opened up a new wing here.” Aziraphale says, tone pointed. 

“Neither did I.” Crowley replies. He doesn’t take his eyes off the canvas. “No matter the century, fascination with the Original Sin never ceases, does it? Still enough to fill a whole corridor.”

Briefly, Aziraphale entertains the notion of asking him - right there, right then, under the painted gazes of Adam and Eve, their lips still stained from the forbidden fruit. It’d be a quiet question - his voice stern, tone firm. Definitely steady. _ What are you playing at, Crowley? _

He can already picture the raising brows, Crowley’s lips quirking into something sharp and amused.

_ “Really now.” _ he’d say, perhaps, with that tone Aziraphale never quite knows what to do with. _ “It’s just an apple, angel.” _

Only that was never the case, was it?   
When you have consumed as many stories as Aziraphale had during his long life - when your longest standing relationship was a clandestine affair with a demon _of all people_ \- you knew that an apple was never _just_ an apple.

Hastily, he swallows his questions past the lump in his throat. To his left, Crowley sighs. 

“They never get my snout right.” he mutters, nudging his glasses in place. “Or the scales, for that matter. Why are they always _ green? _”

\---

“You’re awfully distracted today, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale blinks with a start, his manicurist’s smile snapping back into focus. She gives his wrist a little nudge, guiding his hand back in place. 

“Oh - apologies, my dear.” he manages to say, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks. “I’m not very good company today, I’m afraid.” 

He gets a concerned look, accompanied by a hum. “Rough week?”

_ Century. _ “Of sorts.” 

She hums again, eyes fixed on his cuticles. Out of habit, the angel’s gaze scatters across the small studio - until a splash of lacquered pink catches his attention. 

“That lunchbox is new.” he says, craning his neck for a better look. “Very pretty.”

“Ah, yes. My dear partner got one of those big, fancy recipe books for their birthday, and they made it their mission to make _ every _ single dish.” Aziraphale can _ hear _ the sparkle in her eyes. “Between you and me, I think it’s all an elaborate ploy to stop me from eating my weight in biscuits for lunch every day.”

Warmth flickers from her skin, the soft aura of someone besotted wrapping around her body. It’s a familiar sensation, one that never fails to warm Aziraphale’s heart. 

“Zadie truly is a treasure.” he says, lips tugging into a smile. (If his heart twists against his ribs, accompanied by pinpricks of equally familiar pain, she doesn’t need to know.) 

“They are. I’m very lucky.” 

Comfortable silence settles over the room, broken only by the occasional rustle. If he strains his ears, Aziraphale can hear the chime of the afternoon news.

“It’s the little things.” the manicurist murmurs after a pause. “Big things come and go - but it’s the little things that add up, at the end of the day.” The file pauses against his thumb, her professional mask wavering for a moment. “...Little things can change an awful lot, you know?”

_ Oh, they do indeed_, Aziraphale thinks. (Marketplace, bookshop, park, pub. Gala, Pink Lady, Braeburn, Red Delicious.) “Right you are, my dear.” 

\---

Could angels write poetry?

(It’s Monday and it’s raining again. Crowley is away in Poland on demonic business, leaving his evening quite free for fretting and boarding persistent trains of thought.)

Humans certainly seemed to think so. Centuries’ worth of art had depicted celestial beings as such - jack-of-all-arts, expert singers and poets without exception. Aziraphale, however, would have to politely disagree - as flattered as he was with the notion. Angels, after all, were not creatures meant for creation.   
(Good angels weren’t, at least.) 

_ “Isn’t it spectacular?” _ he remembers whispering to Crowley a few months back as the last performer skipped off the stage, bright smile sparkling in the low light of the Soho venue. _ “That vocabulary, that rhythm, that rhyming couplet! I almost wish I could write something like that.” _

_ “Go for it.” _ the demon had replied, fingers playing with the scarf Aziraphale had wrestled around his neck the moment they stepped into the chilly evening. (Wearing V-necks and thin jackets in November, _ honestly _ .) The tartan sat against his dark jacket beautifully. _ “You’ve got a few weeks until the sign-ups start for the next evening.” _

_ “Oh don’t be silly.” _

_ “No, really. What’s stopping you?” _ Crowley had said, eyebrows raised. _ “You’ve read more poetry than any living being on this planet, Aziraphale. If anyone’s qualified to give it a shot, it’s you.” _

_ “That’s not how this works,” _ he would have liked to protest - but the next speaker had cleared their throat and the evening had continued on. _ It’s not as straightforward as that. _

Because it _ wasn’t _, despite Crowley’s confidence. Aziraphale would have likened it to owning the finest building blocks - a plethora of beautiful words, sculpted by the passing time and evolving cultures. But it is one thing to own and appreciate words and language - it is quite another to craft them into the fine lattice that was a poem. He thinks he does alright, as far as speech goes. But poetry - poetry is a different beast altogether. 

Angels were not meant for creation, and neither was Aziraphale. 

\---

Despite his feverish promises - both to an audience and in private - the copy of _Twilight_ is still on his desk, weeks later. He manages to ignore its scratched cover and battered spine for a few days at a time - but he always ends up miracling it back into shape in the end.   
It’s the principle of things, he tells his reflection. Books were books, after all, and even if it was given as a joke - as a means to annoy him - it was still part of his collection now. And he couldn’t very well just abandon it.   
(His reflection doesn’t look particularly impressed by the reasoning.)

And _ yes, _ it was a silly reasoning, perhaps. But that’s what he was, at the core of it - a hoarder of things. Beautiful things, delicious things, fascinating things.  
(Important things.)   
Crowley had called him a dragon once, wine-flushed and still buzzing from their trip to the cinema. (It was a fond precursor to their consequent two-hour bickering about fantasy reptiles as a whole, and the hypothetical practicalities of wearing waistcoats over scales.) Because Crowley knew this - knew _ him_. With his tendencies to keep beautiful and fascinating things close, with his tendencies to consume, to indulge, to _ savour _ . With his tendencies to perhaps cling a little longer than necessary, with a fondness for nostalgia.   
And here he was - using them to tease _ (tempt) _ Aziraphale in the worst of ways. Here he was, hand extended, offering him beautiful, delicious, _ fascinating _ things - things he _ had _ to know the angel couldn’t resist. 

Angels stood strong in the face of temptation. (Good angels did.) And on that note, angels didn’t _ get _ attached to possessions. (His internal voice was beginning to sound suspiciously similar to Gabriel.) They certainly don’t hoard things out of sentimental value, not if it didn’t benefit the Divine Plan. 

\---

The book is hidden out of sight the next time Crowley visits him - tucked into a drawer of his desk, nestled under a stack of old tax forms. A temporary, acceptable compromise until Aziraphale can think of something better.   
A plan for another day, however. Crowley had strutted in wearing Those Damned Trousers and Aziraphale’s day had swiftly taken a turn for the worse.   
(He could swear they’re even tighter than last time, as if ravaged by a particularly vengeful washing machine. Aziraphale is half expecting embroideries of apples to appear on the back pockets these days, to _really _drive the point home.)   
The demon doesn’t seem to notice his strained predicament, gesturing wildly as he recounts how he humiliated a cocky author in front of all his followers earlier. There’s genuine glee to his words, usual nonchalance replaced with a wide grin. 

(It’s a really good smile, aesthetically speaking. Wide and just crooked enough to be impish - _ roguish _ \- carrying a certain kind of delight that sent one’s heart squirming.)

“The name-calling might have been a little unnecessary.” Aziraphale says once Crowley fixes his expectant gaze on him. He cannot muster up any sort of heat.

“He has a nineteen room mansion to cry in, he can handle it.” Crowley scoffs. With a grunt, he slides further down the sofa, legs sprawling wide open with the motion. 

_ Oh, Good Lord. _

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale reminds himself that Crowley wasn’t at blame here. It wouldn’t be fair, not really. It wasn’t the demon’s fault that he did temptation so _ well _ . It wasn’t his fault that Aziraphale was apparently so weak to it. (That he always has been.) It’s hardly a new...issue, after all. Unbeknownst _(Lord, he hopes)_ to his celestial companion, he’s been drawing Aziraphale’s eye for millenia now, prompting a maelstrom of...reactions from him since Day One. (He hadn’t had the words to name what it was that he felt, but oh, he _ felt _ them.)  
It was never Crowley’s fault - there was nothing malicious or deliberate in play from his end. But this time...this time, what he’s doing _ does _ feel deliberate - aimed his way and designed to tear at Aziraphale’s already tattered convictions. 

“You’re quiet today.” the demon in question says. He dips his head, unblinking eyes peering over the top of his glasses. “What’s on your mind, angel?”

_ Oh, you know. Questions and questions - why exactly are you doing this now, six thousand years down the line? Do you know how prepared I actually was for your temptations in the Beginning - and how odd it was that they never came? _

“Oh - your story just reminded me of that time we paid the Fitzgeralds a visit…”

\---

It takes two weeks, an apple-blossom scented air-freshener dangling off the Bentley’s mirror and a substantial amount of wine for him to crack. 

“What _ exactly _ \- is your _ game _ here, Crowley?”

In his head, the words were firm, demanding, exuding absolute finality and confidence. Stumbling from drunken lips, they sound sleepy and sulky at the very best. The accused blinks at the unsteady finger thrust into his face, cheeks flushed and glasses askew. 

“I just think it’s funny.” comes the slurred reply. “For you to get ssso flustered over a poor piece of fruit, sssix thousand years down the line.” His frame shakes with an undignified hiccough, followed by a snigger. “You seem more annoyed _now_ than you were back in Eden.”

Lead-limbed and hazy, Aziraphale can’t quite decide whether he’s more surprised or frustrated by the admission - _ what kind of answer was that? _He settles on snatching the bottle from the table, placing it just out of Crowley’s reach.

“I just don’t think it’s very - very _ funny_, you - mocking me like that.” he huffs. “Trying to tempt me like that.” 

A choked sound escapes Crowley - the garbled lovechild of a laugh and a snort. “_Pleassse, _ Aziraphale.” His eyes are wide when their gazes meet, wry with the terrible humour of some joke Aziraphale isn’t privy to. “Like I could ever make you do anything you didn’t want to.” 

\---

Naturally, they don’t talk about it.   
Well - Crowley doesn’t bring it up when he picks the angel up for brunch the next morning and Aziraphale is certainly _ not _ going to be the one to bring it up.

Things seem normal enough when they settle into their seats, waiter promptly taking their drink orders. _ Crowley _seems normal enough - hair artfully ruffled and lips pursed as he glances through the paper. He orders a muffin (obnoxiously fluffy and sticky with blueberries), sliding it in front of Aziraphale the moment the angel finishes his Full English. As they clamber in the car, the police officer on the other side of the road suddenly finds himself with four flat tyres. 

He doesn’t breathe a word about apples or temptations.   
And yet, his words rattle around in Aziraphale’s head long after they part. 

\---

It takes four insistent knocks, a chiming bell and heavy footsteps for him to realise he has company. 

“Angel! Are you back there?” Crowley’s voice calls from the doorway. “Have you fallen prey to the Brontë sisters again?”

Aziraphale manages to push himself to his feet before the demon pops into view, swiftly rearranging his expression into something resembling a smile. “Hello - I’m so sorry, I seem to have lost track of time. Give me a few minutes to get ready, it won’t - “

“What’s wrong?”

There’s an awkward beat of silence before Crowley ventures closer. Mouth pressed into a thin line, he stops just out of reach. It’s disconcerting enough to allow the convenient lie to crumble on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue.

“It’s just - it’s just been a _ day_.” he mutters eventually, with as much dignity as his tired voice can muster. “I had to deal with some very persistent customers all morning - one of them wanted to discuss hiring his _ renovation crew _ \- and then _ Gabriel _showed up out of the blue - “ 

The demon’s brows furrow, a distasteful shudder rippling through his frame at the name. There’s a sigh - and then there’s a hand against the angel’s shoulder, giving him the slightest push. 

“Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.” 

Half a dozen weak protests and a handful of demonic miracles later, Aziraphale finds himself on the couch, cocooned in a knitted blanket. His curtains have politely drawn themselves shut, leaving the room pleasantly dark. A mug of tea finds its way into his hands, a familiar spicy scent mingling amidst the herbal steam. 

“You _ do _ know that whiskey is not actually a universal cure-it-all, don’t you?” He takes a sip regardless, welcoming the pleasant burn against his throat. 

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” the demon replies. There’s an odd edge to his voice and all of a sudden, Aziraphale feels terribly guilty. Crowley _ really _had his heart set on this performance.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, about all this.” He was being ridiculous - surely he could manage a car ride and sitting in a plush seat for an hour and a half. “Just give me a minute, we can still make the show - “

“Don’t be daft, angel.” Crowley snaps. His hand twitches in his lap, twisting into the fabric. “...Just rest up, alright? Royal Albert ain’t going anywhere.”

Aziraphale can only nod. Raising the mug to his lips, he decides to blame the heat in his cheeks on the generously-spiked tea.   
There’s a shuffle of feet from Crowley’s direction, abrupt and unsure. It’s followed by a cough. 

“Well. I’ll - I’ll be going then. Do you need - “

“Stay.” The words stumble out before he can stop himself. “I mean - if you’re not terribly busy - could you - “

“Yeah.” comes the reply. Slowly - slowly - Crowley lowers himself on the other end of the couch, his thigh just a few inches away from Aziraphale’s blanket-covered feet. “Yeah, of course.” 

-

He’s alone when he rouses back to consciousness, groggy and sticky-eyed. There’s a steaming mug on his bedside table, supporting a note promising him breakfast in twenty minutes. 

\---

It truly is amazing what a little hindsight can do. 

_ If we survive this, _ Aziraphale thinks as he raises his flaming sword, _ I have so many apologies to make. _

“Do something or - or I’ll never talk to you again!” 

\---

Much to the shock of everyone involved, they _ do _survive it. 

Aziraphale doesn’t remember much of the bus ride back to London, exhaustion claiming most coherent thoughts. He thinks he might have closed his eyes somewhere around Uxbridge, drifting in and out of consciousness. The only certainty is the memory of Crowley’s hand in his own, their fingers twisted together with a terrible sort of urgency. 

Crowley is pacing now, flitting between the kitchen and the too-sparse living room. There’s a terrible sort of tenseness to his shoulders, his eyes skittering towards the window with every second breath. 

“Sorry, not a lot of places to sit.” Crowley comes to a stop in front of the table, an arm’s reach away from Aziraphale. He sways on his feet, like one wrong word could knock him over. “I’ve got a - I’ve got a bed, in the...in the bedroom if - if you want to get. Best get some rest before tomorrow, before all the - yeah.”

_ Ah. Right. Impending ethereal punishment, and all. _

“Tomorrow.” Aziraphale echoes. Hidden behind his back, his fingers slowly twist into fists. (He can still feel the phantom grip of the other on his skin.) “...What _ are _ we going to do tomorrow, Crowley?”

“...I don’t know.” The demon’s throat bobs with a nervous swallow. Somewhere between the hallway and the living room, his glasses had gotten displaced. “But I’ll figure something out, angel. I promise.” 

There’s no hesitation in his voice. Just another promise out of the hundreds - _ thousands _ \- he’s made since that day in Eden, Aziraphale recognises with a jolt. Another promise he means to keep, no matter what ridiculous, improbable circumstances might conspire against him.  
All for Aziraphale. Just for him.

_ “Would I lie to you?” _

It’s three hours after the attempted end of the world. He’s in Crowley’s apartment, standing in front of a too-familiar statue from a now-demolished church. He’s in Crowley’s apartment, and there’s another promise in the making - painfully earnest and oh-so-eager, framed by nervous hands and a stuttering tongue.   
Before Crowley can string the words into coherence, the angel closes the distance between them in one fell swoop, leaning in to steal them right off his lips. 

\---

“You don’t taste like apples.” he says later. (Although it’s barely been in a day, it feels like it’s been a few years, with the number of life-altering events they had to deal with.) He whispers the admission into the crook of Crowley’s naked shoulder, conspiratory and secretive. He feels the demon shudder in response, hazy eyes blinking in his direction. 

“...no?” he says, slowly. “Why should I?”

Aziraphale shrugs. He can’t quite keep the smile off his face. “I thought you would, once.” 

Sinewy limbs twist under the sheets, slithering closer. A hand snakes its way past satin and tousled hair, curling to cup the Aziraphale’s cheek. “Spend a lot of time thinking about how I taste, angel?”

_ You have no idea. _ He lets his grin answer that question, basking in the warmth of Crowley’s proximity. “I also used to think your tongue would be forked. Back in the day. Came as a bit of a shock when I found it wasn’t.” 

“Disappointed?”

Despite the light tone, there’s a nervous undercurrent to Crowley’s question, teeth worrying his lower lip. Before he can glance away, Aziraphale’s fingers slide on top of his hand. Slowly, the angel turns his head far enough to press a kiss against Crowley’s wrist.  
(Freckled skin and pointy bones, wrapped around a precious, _ precious _ pulse. It jumps under his lips and Aziraphale’s heart _ sings _ in response.)

“You, my dear, are absolutely perfect.” 

\---

(Years later - when Aziraphale’s books are stacked next to Crowley’s potted ferns in haphazard stacks and the act of holding hands is a treasured habit rather than an exercise in bravery - Crowley would tease him.

_ “All it took was the end of the world.” _ he’d say when asked how exactly they got together, smile soft against his dramatic tone. And Aziraphale would play along, all wide eyes and flustered protests. He’d pull away with a pout, knowing that Crowley would always follow, winding a skinny arm around his own until their elbows were locked together. There’d be a murmured apology - and on brave days, a brush of lips against his cheek. 

He knew how much Crowley enjoyed telling that story. _ Their story _ \- now that he _ could_.   
Even if it wasn’t quite true. 

As narratively perfect it would have been for his _ big moment of realisation _ to happen at the end of a thwarted apocalypse, it hadn’t. It had been just a little earlier, on a perfectly unremarkable day. The sky had been dotted with depressing grey clouds, the wind tugging at the lapels of his coat. It had been ten minutes shy of two o’clock and Crowley had been mocking the bickering ducks of St James for the past half hour. Not only had he invented an intricate backstory of Shakespearean proportions for each bird, but he had also assigned them all a separate mocking voice (ranging from cockney gangster to aristocratic lady). By the time he was finished, Aziraphale’s ribs had hurt from laughter.

_ “Stop!” _ he had pleaded, reaching to wipe his eyes. _ “I won’t be able to look at them without laughing now.” _

_ “Such a cruel thing to do, angel.” _ Crowley had said, shaking his head. Despite his best efforts to look serious, his lips twitched. _ “Laughing at Frederick’s suffering.” _

_ “I thought it was Dave who was suffering.” _

_ “Yes, but Dave isn’t the sort to mope for long. Do keep up.” _

There was fondness in his words, barely bothering to lurk. Aziraphale had blinked his vision clear, allowing the fondness to take its customary place within his chest - just as the thought took crystal-clear form. 

_ Oh. I love you. _

It should have swept him straight off his feet, really. If all the books were anything to go by, his knees should have been weak and his lungs robbed of air. Considering the trepidation, the _ conflict _ this has caused the both of them throughout all these years - it should have demanded a few tears, at the very least. 

And yet -   
Crowley tilted his head, mouthing something at the duck pecking at his shoe. The sun chose that moment to peek out from behind the clouds, rays lighting the colour of his hair aflame. He reached up to adjust his glasses. They were new - overpriced and borderline tacky. The rims were a nauseating shade of brown and Aziraphale adored the way they looked on Crowley. 

_ Big things come and go. _   
(The Globe, the Bastille, the church.)   
_It’s the little things that add up, at the end of the day._  
(Halloween sweets hidden in mugs. Tea refills at a perfect temperature. Crinkled tickets, in conveniently perfect seats. Warm hands pressing against his forehead, accompanied by concerned eyes.   
Invitations. Boundaries. The little warm lilt to words spoken, unchanged in its fondness by the passing of centuries.)

Finally shaking the duck’s attention, Crowley had made a move to check his watch. Amber eyes peeked out from behind tinted glass, accompanied by lazy flick of his hand. _ “Coming, angel?” _

It was like swallowing a mouthful of the sweetest wine. His heart sang with warmth as it travelled down to his fingertips, leaving his skin tingling in its wake. It was all-encompassing, just close enough to the bone to ache.   
It was like coming home. 

_ “Of course, my dear.” _ he heard himself reply. _ “Right behind you.” _ )

\---

“That’s new.”

The bell above the door rattles, announcing their very-much expected guest cheerfully. Hands still curled around the varnished wood, Aziraphale glances over his shoulder. 

“I picked it up this morning. Fits right in, don’t you think?”

Crowley hums, tilting his head as he considers the fruit bowl on the desk, filled to the brim with apples. He reaches for his glasses, pushing them to rest in his hair. “Dabbling in the business of temptation now, are we, angel?”

There’s an obvious bait to his words, a hand on a casually-cocked hip. Maybe Crowley means to tease. To Aziraphale’s ears, it sounds like an invitation to sweep into the demon’s personal space and crowd him against the desk in three easy steps. He’s welcomed with a smile - surprised, eager, _ delighted _ \- and hastily rearranged limbs to better accommodate him. 

“_Really_, Crowley.” he chides. Without taking his eyes off the demon, he plucks a fruit from the bowl. The sun glints across the waxy surface as Aziraphale raises it to his lips - a deep ruby that’s always brought a certain snake’s scales to mind. “It’s just an apple.” 

\---

AN:

I saw this [stunning piece of artwork by quadlinda](https://quadlinda.tumblr.com/post/185825443623/its-just-an-apple) and this pretty much hit me like a truck. Please check them out, their art is all sorts of incredible!   
Lyrics are from [Arctic Monkeys' Knee Socks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyO-Sveg6a8), which I had on repeat whilst writing this (Lord knows why 'cough drop coloured tongue' was the line that finally helped me figure out the difficult parts...)

Hope you guys enjoyed - any thoughts are super appreciated <3 If you're on Tumblr, [hit me up! ](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
